


Nocturne

by Atiki



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coming Out, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post S4, References to Abuse, Rosie is a thing but she's not The Main Thing, mild depictions of violence, no mention of sister edgelord
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 19:03:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9621419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atiki/pseuds/Atiki
Summary: All the most important conversations happen at night.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Bonjour. Thanks for choosing this fic.  
> I wrote this very quickly because it was supposed to be a short ficlet in response to a tumblr anon. well that didn't work out. i can't be arsed to even reread this rn so... i'll correct the more obvious mistakes tomorrow, probably. no beta and no rereading, we throw our crap out there like men. This is more of an extended ficlet than a well-rounded fic tbh
> 
> **content warning:** violence and abuse, not overly graphic; john beating sherlock up in TLD is an issue

 

 

Soon after John moves back into 221B, they develop a habit of staying up late. It’s not the most practical arrangement, with case work and therapy appointments and, above all, an infant who needs a somewhat regular sleep schedule.

They make it work somehow.

After everything that’s happened, it’s easier to face one another like this. At night. In this soft, dimly lit environment they rebuilt together, that flat that used to be their whole world, with the kettle boiling and the odd occasional sound of London creeping in as their city stirs softly in its sleep. Daylight is too sharp for them right now. It’s cruel and merciless. Daylight comes with work and deductions and tragedy, and uncomfortable truths. Darkness, on the other hand, is a catalyst.

Words are softer at night, these days.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m selling the house,” John says, when the silence stretches between them. He and Rosie have moved back in three weeks ago. It’s time.

It's late, very late, but neither of them even considers going to bed. The darkened sitting room is their shelter, and nights like this are their oxygen right now, when everything's so desperately fragile and broken.

Sherlock takes a sip of his tea, eyes John cautiously. There’s a bruise forming underneath his left eye, with a scratch at the centre of it. It’s small, already healing, barely visible in the sparse light. John doesn’t know where it comes from. Case work. Nothing important, or Sherlock would have told him. Sherlock keeps getting in trouble, keeps getting hurt, never considers it important. John glances down at his own hands that are folded in his lap. It’s not his fault. Not this time. Not this time, but still.

“I’m selling the house,” he repeats, “and honestly, it’s the best decision I’ve made in a while. Yeah. I never want to live there again. I don’t want—I don’t want Rosie to live there either. The memories. The—everything. Plus, I can really use the money.”

“Quite right,” Sherlock says and smiles a bit, just slightly, crinkles forming around his eyes and everything.

John bites his lip. “Is it—is it wrong that I don’t want her to remember it?” he says, too fast, “The house. I don’t want Rosie to remember it.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, another sip of his tea.

“I don’t know if this makes me a horrible person, because it’s her first home and I’m taking it away from her. She won’t remember it, in a few years, she’s—too small. And it’s the only home she’s had with her mother, and I’m taking that away from her because I’m afraid that in a few years she might ask me about the wallpaper in the nursery and who chose it, or the bloody couch or the goddamn kitchen table and if Mary liked to sit there with her or—“ he cuts himself off, swallows, looks at the floor, “and I don’t want to answer any of these questions, you know? I don’t want her to grow up in a house I bought with a woman I barely knew who went and died and left her child behind and… I’m taking that away from her. From Rosie, I mean. I want to make sure she doesn’t remember it. I’m—this is—this is a horrible thing to do, isn’t it? She deserves to remember her first home and her-- her mother.”

“John,” Sherlock says.

“I need a new beginning,” John continues, “and I’m forcing her to go through this with me. Maybe it’s hard for her. Maybe she’s homesick. I’m sure she misses her mother, she’s too young to understand it but she does. And I’m—I can barely keep it together myself, let alone be a good father—“

“You’re a good father, John.” Sherlock sounds very sincere.

John shakes his head slightly. “Sometimes I feel like I’m not even trying.”

Sherlock puts his cup down on the cluttered side table next to his chair. He leans forward, folds his hands under his chin. His hair is tousled and his dressing gown is rumpled and so are his pyjamas, and his naked feet must be getting cold and John’s chest feels like it could burst for a billion reasons.

“John, if what happened – everything that happened, everything I _did_ – ever taught me anything it’s that there’s nothing wrong with wanting to come home,” Sherlock says.

It’s quiet and sincere and for some odd reason it makes tears sting in John’s eyes.

He buries his face in his hands. The small clock on the mantle, the one Sherlock got as a parting gift from a frighteningly attentive serial strangler a few years ago, strikes four. 

 

* * *

 

 

“I got a new therapist.”

“Mmh.”

“A man this time. Thought I’d give it a try. It’s different.”

“Good?”

John shifts in his chair, wriggles his toes on the rug. He’s warm, so very warm. How did that happen?

“Good, yeah.” John takes a deep breath. It’s way past midnight and this is it, this is the opportunity he's going to take; it’s time to talk about something that’s been eating him up from the inside like an ugly parasite, and John Watson is done with pain and self-loathing.

“One thing we talked about, during my last—my last session,” he begins carefully, “is my problem with misguided blame and- aggression. I end up blaming people for my mistakes. And I really… need to work on this.”

“John—“

"No, please.You know what this is about. And I know it was wrong. Blaming you for Mary’s death, I mean. Because it wasn’t your fault and you did your best to prevent it and in the end it was her own past that caught up with her and... I need to apologize and I don’t know how, because I hurt you in this morgue and it’s terrible, it’s the worst thing I’ve ever done and I don’t know if a simple apology can ever fix this and --“ He cuts himself off, runs a hand through his hair, “god, I’m rubbish at this.”

“The worst thing you’ve ever done?” Sherlock says slowly, “you have killed people, you know.” And Sherlock’s getting this all wrong because he’s smiling, like he finds this amusing, like it’s not serious business at all, and that alone makes John angry. Always so angry, always way too angry these days. God, he hates himself.

“The worst thing I’ve ever done was hurting you like this. I – Christ, I beat you to a pulp, kicked you when you were down,” John says, “so yes. Yes, and I’m serious about this. And I talked to my therapist about it, over and over and - you didn’t deserve a second of it.“

“I did. John, stop apologizing, there’s no need-“

“Yes, there is.”

“No, there isn’t. I know why you did it and I know why I deserved it. It’s fine. Let’s forget about it.”

“No, Sherlock, we can’t – that’s the whole point, that’s what I’ve been working on for the last two weeks, because if we just forget about it I’ll never -- _we’ll_ never work past—“ John’s voice is getting louder and his bottom lip is trembling and he’s searching for the right words but they just aren’t there, and Sherlock looks so _confused_ and it’s all so, so very wrong.

 

They’re interrupted by a high-pitched squeal. The baby monitor. Rosie’s had another nightmare, apparently, and Her Majesty demands an audience. They both stare at the stupid thing for a second before John realises he’s supposed to react. God, he really is a mess, isn’t he? His daughter is crying for him and he’s busy yelling at his best friend and hurting him again. Again and again. Because that's all he can do, these days, apparently. Hurt people.

“I’m going,” he says, quietly, and gets up, turns to go tend to the baby, but a second later Sherlock, Sherlock who’s already standing in front of the fireplace, the baby monitor in hand, puts a hand on his shoulder, warm, solid pressure through the fabric of his shirt, and halts him. And suddenly John has no idea how to breathe.

“I’ll take care of her,” Sherlock says, “I’ll—I think I can handle—“

“Sherlock."

“Sit back down, John. Your hands are trembling. I’ll go upstair.” Sherlock drops the baby monitor onto his chair and walks upstairs and John does as he’s told.

He sits down, breathes, runs a hand through his hair. He is indeed shaking. Still. Violently so.

Rosie stops crying a minute later. The baby monitor creaks as Sherlock starts to talk to her softly. It can barely pick up on the deep, rumbling baritone. John nearly smiles at the thought that Sherlock’s voice actually stumps a baby monitor. Rosie’s contented babbling, however, is loud and clear.

John stares at the baby monitor and wonders what on earth his life has become.

A glance at his phone confirms that it’s 3:39 am. No more talking today.

 

Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after that.

Next week maybe.

Next month.

 

One day. Definitely one day.

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes they stay up because being awake is so much easier than sleeping. Because they’re two broken men who have faced death and loss and heartbreak and made mistakes that ruined lives. Because there’s blood on their hands and because somewhere deep down, memories keep rearing their ugly heads, coming to torture them, and it’s hateful and pathetic but sometimes it gets better over a cup of tea in the sitting room. Or a glass of scotch, as far as John is concerned. Sherlock, however, is very good at stealing and hiding John’s liquor. John knows Sherlock does it for his own sake, and the thought makes him want to yell at him and rip his own hair out, but deep inside he’s grateful. Kind of. Maybe. Comprehending his own emotions is currently not his strong suit.

 

John’s nightmares have always been an open book to Sherlock, but sometimes talking is good. He tells Sherlock that he rarely dreams of Mary’s death and it makes him feel guilty. That he keeps dreaming of the war, and Sherlock’s suicide, and one time he screamed in his sleep and he woke Rosie and he feels awful, he feels horrible, he’s a horrible person for it, he’s _weak_.

 

Sherlock, in return, tells him things John has never thought possible. Or, maybe, he’s always known they were possible, because nothing’s impossible with Sherlock, really. He just never expected to hear those things spelled out.

Sherlock dreams of the day he shot Magnussen, as it turns out. Because no matter how much murder and blood and gore one has seen, and no matter how despicable the person one has killed might be, there’s only so much guilt even Sherlock can take.

 

One night it’s particularly cold and John stokes up a fire and turns off the light and they talk in the darkness, in front of the fireplace, until the sun rises and baths them in crimson light and John is glad they can’t see each other’s faces because Sherlock’s voice is trembling and if it wasn’t dark, John might be able to see the tears in Sherlock's eyes, and he’s not sure he’d be able to bear this.

 

John learns about the two years Sherlock spent dead; the nights he was locked up in a Serbian torture chamber, and the one night he killed a professional assassin in self-defense.

“It was either him or me,” Sherlock tells him quietly, “he was – doing his job. But he had a wife and two children and he died under my hands. And sometimes I see his open eyes, staring up at me. Sometimes I dream--”

“It’s not your fault,” John says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Sherlock makes a derisive noise. “Of course it’s my fault, it’s the definition of _my fault.”_

“He had this job because he needed the money, desperately so. He was not a psychopath. No violent tendencies whatsoever. Not naturally. Taught himself to kill mercilessly because he wanted to keep his family alive. He was brainwashed and tortured and forced to do the horrible things he did, but he never _wanted_ to do them. He chased me for weeks, I knew everything about him, towards the end. He was, in a way, a better man than me. I should have let him—do his job instead. But survival instinct got the better of me.”

“Sherlock,” John says quietly, “don’t say anything like that ever again.”

Sherlock leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, and he doesn’t say another word.

 

There so much more to say that isn’t said. Not yet. They aren’t ready.

John goes to bed instead, and lies awake until the sun rises and the sharp burn in his chest has turned into a dull ache and he falls into a dreamless sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I wonder how long Rosie and I can stay here,” John says contemplatively.

 

They’re on the couch tonight, for a change, staying up way too long, talking about whatever is on their minds. Just spelling it all out, without a filter.

Sherlock is on his back, his knees drawn up as if he’s sulking, his toes on the sofa cushions. He’s not sulking, though. He’s contemplating. And his whole body performs a sort of calculated wiggle in reaction to John’s words.

 

“I mean, Rosie and I can’t share a room forever, you know? It’s all right as long as she’s a baby, but eventually she’ll need her own room. Plus, we clutter your space.”

Sherlock is looking at him intently now, and John is, for some odd reason, aware that his toes are only inches away from his thigh and—are his pupils blown wide? He looks almost upset.

“You don’t clutter my space,” Sherlock says firmly.

“Yes, yes we do,” John tells him and snatches a forgotten toy from the back rest of the sofa, turns it over in his palm. It’s a little plastic elephant. John can’t remember buying it. Must be from Sherlock in the first place.

“I’ve been thinking about moving upstairs into 221C,” Sherlock says, “Mrs Hudson is thinking about having it renovated and I would be interested. Might take a year or two until it’s properly ready, though.”

John stares at him.

“There’s more space, too. For a proper lab,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly, “and you and Rosie can have the flat for yourselves.”

“You would do this?”

“What?”

“Give up 221B to give Rosie and me a place to live? Move out of your own flat? For—for us?”

“Of course for you and Rosie,” Sherlock says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Why?”

“Because it’s your home,” Sherlock says, steeples his hands under his chin and closes his eyes.

Five minutes later, Sherlock is sound asleep.

John watches him sleep for a long time as he simply breathes, watches the calm rise and fall of his chest. He drapes a blanket over him before he goes upstairs, and makes sure to cover his toes. Sherlock’s toes always get cold.

 

* * *

 

 

Rosie is running a fever. It’s nothing serious and Sherlock makes more of a fuss about it than John, but it takes hours, literal hours, to get her to sleep. She chooses Sherlock’s belly to finally fall asleep on, of all places. Sherlock, in return, chooses to stay very still on the couch for over four hours in order not to wake her.

John finally picks her up and carries her to bed at three in the morning.

When he comes back downstairs, Sherlock is standing in front of the window with his violin, and he’s playing a familiar melody that sounds like pure, sleepy melancholy. Sherlock rarely plays at night, these days, because Rosie needs her sleep, but tonight’s piece is calm and quiet and won’t disturb her.

“It’s Chopin’s Nocturne,” Sherlock says when he has finished, “best in combination with a piano, but sadly, we don’t have one of those. Or anyone who could play Chopin on it, for that matter.” He bites his lip. “Always helped me sleep when I was a child,” he adds.

John smiles at him. “You know she loves you, don’t you?”

Sherlock puts his violin down on the table and looks at him, confused, with only the bow in hand.

“Rosie. She will grow up looking up to you. And she loves you a lot.”

Sherlock blinks. “I love her too,” he says then, and picks up the violin once more.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock walks into the kitchen at 3:30 am and finds John crying quietly into the sink.

 

Sherlock ends up standing in the doorway, helplessly, just watching, and John hates himself fiercely for letting himself be seen like this. And he might as well say the things he needs to say now, might as well give it another try, because it’s shit anyway. This whole situation is shit and he’s going to make the best of it.

 

“I’m sorry,” John says and it comes out like a sob. Sherlock takes a step closer.

“John, I don’t know what you’re—“

John’s fingers dig into the counter. “Of course you bloody know what you’re talking about, and I need to--“

“John, you already apologized, and it’s fine. It’s enough, there’s no need—“

“Please,” John says quietly, “let me explain. Properly, this time.”

 

Sherlock fiddles with the cord of his dressing gown and looks at him. His hair is sleep-tousled and John notices that he’s actually wearing a pair of his cashmere socks that are more expensive than John’s entire wardrobe. At least his toes are not getting cold tonight.

 

“I don’t need you to tell me it doesn’t matter, or that it’s fine or that you deserved it.“

“But I—“

“No!” John exclaims, and it’s loud, far too loud, and Sherlock flinches, and John buries his face in his hands and nearly starts sobbing again, because that’s precisely it, this is what he’s done. This is horrible. “I’ve talked this through with... my therapist,” he continues quietly, “ _again_. Yesterday. And what it all boils down to is that you need to tell me that you forgive me. And God, you need to mean it. Because I’m sorry. I’m sorry I blamed you for Mary’s death, because I swear I know it was not your fault. It has never been your fault, not for a second, you haven't done anything wrong. And I’m sorry I hurt you, I’m so sorry and it’s killing me. And I need you to forgive me because—because I need to forgive myself. Eventually. And I won’t right away, but it’s a start. And I need you—I need you to--”

John cuts himself off, swallows down the tears, wipes his eyes that are red and burning and finally lets go of the bloody sink.

 

“John,” Sherlock says softly, “how can you not know that whatever you feel sorry for, you are forgiven. You are always, without compromise, forgiven.”

 

John takes a deep breath, then another one, and a sob forces its way out and he is weak, so horribly, utterly weak.

 

Sherlock comes closer, and a second later his arms are wrapped firmly around John’s shaking body, and his cheek is pressed to the top of John’s head as he holds him close. And this time, John allows himself to collapse into him, wraps his arms around his waist, buries his face in Sherlock’s neck and breathes him in. Sherlock smells like shampoo and his expensive laundry detergent and his neck is wet with John’s tears and so is the collar of his t-shirt. And then Sherlock’s nose is in John’s hair and their feet are touching, John’s woollen socks against Sherlock’s cashmere-clad toes, and John finally, _finally_ stops shivering.

 

“Thank you for your apology, John. I accept it,” Sherlock says solemnly, a while later. Maybe five minutes, maybe an hour. John can’t really tell.

 

“Thank you,” John whispers into his neck, “thank you so much.”

 

They break apart with something like reluctance, and they stay to close to each other afterwards. Way too close. John can count the freckles on Sherlock’s neck. He can still _smell_ his shampoo. It’s ginger with sandalwood, and something else, something—something tender and beautiful, but maybe that’s just Sherlock himself in the sparse light in their kitchen at 3 in the morning.

They’ve never been this close

 

“I understand now,” John says I understand that everything you did the last few years – was for me.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sherlock lies.

“I understand that you committed murder for me, alright? I understand that you were ready to get yourself killed in Eastern Europe, and I know you would have let Smith kill you with his bare hands. You would have killed yourself for me, and you— bloody hell, Sherlock, you really need to stop _dying_.”

“I’ll do my best,” Sherlock says slowly.

“No, I’m serious. You really, really need to stop dying, because I need you. We – need you. Rosie and I. And Mrs Hudson does, too. We need you alive and healthy, and you need to understand that your life is not worthless.”

“It’s not about worthlessness,” Sherlock says quietly, “it’s about how little it matters. On balance.”

“No. It’s about how much it matters. It—Sherlock, you matter so much.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, closes it again, stares at the floor.

“You’re the most important person in my life,” John says soundlessly, “well, you and Rosie. The two of you. You know this, right?”

 

He never gets an answer.

Sherlock blinks and blinks and then just says, “Good night, John,” and shuffles back into his room. 

And despite all this, or maybe because of it, this is the first time John allows himself to think that, one day, it will be okay again. One day, they'll somehow be okay.

 

* * *

 

Their first New Years Eve back together at 221B is quiet, so very quiet.

They have dinner with Mrs Hudson and invite her into their flat afterwards, and when Rosie’s asleep they open a bottle of champagne and Sherlock plays Auld Lang Syne on his violin. John and Mrs Hudson clap and Sherlock does a ridiculous little bow when he’s finished, and John has never, ever felt more at home.

At midnight, there are hugs.

Mrs Hudson gives them both a kiss on the cheek and then, when the countdown is over, the second the new year begins, John puts down his glass, walks up to Sherlock and hugs him, and somehow it’s the most natural thing in the world. And Sherlock hugs him back, just like that, and says, “A happy New Year to you too, John.”

 

Two hours later Mrs Hudson has gone to bed and the bottle of champagne is empty, and they’re giggly and comfortable in their chairs, and Sherlock is typing away on his phone.

“Have you ever had a New Year’s kiss?” John asks, because for some reason, he feels comfortable asking. Everything is so easy tonight.

Sherlock looks at him in a very peculiar way for a second and says, “No.”

“Mmh.” John rubs his own thigh with his left hand, contemplates. “What was your best New Year’s Eve, then? Anything special?”

“Tonight,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly.

 

Somehow, John is inclined to agree.

 

* * *

 

 

Irene Adler texts Sherlock on Valentine’s Day, of all days.

Of course she does.

John hears the text alert tone from the kitchen in the afternoon when he’s busy getting Rosie to eat at least a spoon full of mushed carrots. At least one spoon full. John is covered in bright orange baby food from head to toe when he hears the text alert tone that never fails to make the hair at the back of his neck stand up.

 

He doesn’t bring it up until they’re seated in their chairs opposite each other and it’s dark and quiet and maybe two in the morning, and Rosie is asleep, of course.

 

“Still not taking her up on her offer this year?”

Sherlock perks up. “Who?” he asks, as if John can be fooled that easily.

“Oh, come on,” John says exasperatedly.

“No, I’m not taking her up on her offer,” Sherlock says obediently, “there, I said it. Not this year, not last year, and next year I still won’t take her out for dinner. Happy?”

“No,” John says too quickly, “I mean. But _why_? Will you finally tell me why you keep ignoring her?”

“There’s nothing to explain. She texts me. Sometimes I text back. That’s all there is to it. We share… a connection, of sorts, yes, but it’s nothing either of us loses sleep over. Stop ruminating, John.”

“A connection,” John repeats slowly.

“Oh, for god’s sake.”

“Seriously, Sherlock, I’ll never understand why you two never at least-- tried it. Romance is good, you know, it’s a good thing. I know you’re not the heartless monster you want the world to see in you, so why don’t you allow yourself to try it? I just think… it could be good for you, if you gave it a try.”

“Yes, but not with _Irene Adler_ ,” Sherlock exclaims, then blinks exactly twice and looks somewhat taken aback by what he just said.

John takes a deep breath, concentrates. Focus. Talk. “Why not her?”

He isn’t sure he wants an answer. Maybe he really, really does. Maybe he’s afraid of what he might hear.

Sherlock steeples his hands under his chin and seems to contemplate this. “Because,” he says very, very slowly, “Irene Adler and I are very similar.”

John sighs. “You do realise that that’s a good thing? Having something in common? You’re both—Christ, Sherlock, you’re both too smart for your own good, and too gorgeous and you like to get entangled with insane criminals and you seemed to get on like a house on fire via bloody text messages, you’re both--“

“Gay.”

“What?”

“I said, we’re both gay.”

“ _What_?”

“John.”

 

John stares, and stares some more, and Sherlock frowns at him and cocks his head a little and then asks, “are you alright?”

“Yes,” John says before breaking into a fit of giggles, “yes, I’m—are you serious?”

“We also both appreciate music and Italian food,” Sherlock says, “there are common interests, I grant you that. But yes, this is one of the main reasons it would never work out. I thought it was obvious.”

Sherlock looks up, his features soft, covered in shadows in their dimly lit living room. He looks genuinely confused now. A bit anxious maybe. Like he expects rejection, because of _this_ of all things, and John can’t let that happen. This is ridiculous.

“It’s fine,” John gasps out between giggles, “it’s fine, I just—I always wondered. I kept wondering and suddenly it’s this easy? All those years, I could have just asked you, and you would have told me?”

“Of course,” Sherlock says, “it’s not a secret.”

John shakes his head and buries his face in his hands and he’s shaking with the sheer hilarity of it all. “Of course it bloody isn’t,” he says and he has tears in his eyes from laughing so hard, and then, suddenly, Sherlock joins in, and his deep, rumbling laugh mixes with John’s giggles, and it’s beautiful, too beautiful to be happening.

 

John leans forward, puts one hand on Sherlock’s thigh to steady himself and laughs and laughs and laughs, and this, really, is alright in a way.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Westminster Bridge is icy. John stumbles and nearly, very nearly falls, but Sherlock holds him. Keeps him from doubling over. Well, partly Sherlock, partly the railing.

Sherlock’s hand lingers on his back as John straightens himself, and John breaks into a nervous fit of giggles, because he just stumbled and Sherlock Holmes caught him like a swooning princess on Westminster Bridge, and thank god it’s the middle of the night and no one saw them.

 

They stand there for a while, very still, and look down at the water.

 

They’re not in a hurry to get home. Rosie is downstairs at Mrs Hudson’s and they’ve been walking around aimlessly, for hours, their hands brushing against one another from time to time. They solved a case earlier tonight. Barely a four. Harmless kidnapper. Just a spurned lover. Sherlock declared it tedious before it even started.

 

A lonely cab passes them after a few minutes and shakes them out of their reverie.

 

John realises that Sherlock hasn’t been looking at the water, he is watching a lonely figure walking along the Thames in the moonlight instead.

John makes a questioning noise.

“Mmh. War veteran with a limp. Not psychosomatic, mind, a proper limp, shot in the left leg, permanently stiff knee. Obviously can’t sleep. Needs fresh air. Nightmares. PTSD.”

“Sounds familiar.”

Sherlock side-eyes him. “Quite.”

"Mmh."

“He likes to feed the ducks. Didn’t bring bread tonight, though. Regrets not bringing bread, because he’d really like to feed a duck or two right now.”

John chuckles and Big Ben chooses this exact moment to strike four.

“Let’s go home,” John says, “and let’s walk carefully, because the ground is a nightmare.”

 

“How did you work it out? That he usually feeds the ducks?” John asks a few minutes later. He narrowly avoids slipping on the pavement once again, but manages to play it cool, this time.

“He was followed by a duck on the Thames,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly, “Ducks are not idiots, John. They recognise the people who usually bring them food. Ducks are not nocturnal, but this one considered the stranger important enough to disturb its night rest to follow him. Your mistake was that you didn’t pay attention to the duck. Always too focussed on the people themselves. You need to pay attention to their surroundings.”

“Fascinating,” John says, and giggles, and Sherlock’s face lights up a bit in the light cone of a street lamp.

“Mmh.”

“I missed this.”

“What?”

John makes a non-committal hand gesture. “This. Just – walking the streets with Sherlock Holmes. Seeing the things no one else sees because I have your brilliant mind by my side. All that.”

Sherlock takes an audible deep breath and looks up at the night sky. If John were to look him in the eyes he’d see the stars reflected in them. This is Sherlock Holmes with his heart on his sleeve and the armour that is his coat wrapped tightly around him because he’s just a tiny bit cold, and it’s completely and utterly breathtaking to be walking by his side.

“Beautiful,” John says softly.

Sherlock gives him a slight smile. “The moon? Yes.”

And John does the single bravest thing he’s ever done and says, “I wasn’t talking about the moon.”

 

They walk home in silence, and if their hands brush even more frequently this time, they don’t talk about it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s the next evening, after the moon and the duck and the ice on Westminster Bridge, and Sherlock is the one who brings Rosie to bed. He reads her a bedtime story (the one with the blue and the purple rabbit) and gives her a kiss on the forehead, and she gives him a kiss in return and says, “Pa! Pa-eeh!”

“We will work on your range of consonants,” Sherlock promises before switching off the light, “good night, Rosie.”

John watches all this from the doorway, and his heart hurts with how much he loves this. With how much he loves Sherlock and Rosie. It should stay like this, really. Maybe it will, if he does this right. Maybe, maybe he could try.

He’s terrified.

 

It’s not as late as usual when they start to enter nocturnal conversation territory. It only just getting dark. The flat is bathed in soft light, the last rays of sunshine falling through the curtains and all. Blue and grey and a bit of purple, and Sherlock’s just shrugged off his suit jacket and informed John that he’s going to finish another experiment before midnight. But he won’t. Not tonight, John won’t let him, because tonight John is taking a chance.

 

John sits down with Sherlock at the kitchen table and patiently waits until he looks up from his microscope.

“Can I ask you something?” John says quietly.

Sherlock gives him a quizzical look. “0f course.”

“I know you don’t think you deserve happiness. Christ, Sherlock, I’m still not sure if you know you deserve to live, but I’ve been wondering about something, since my wedding, really. Maybe even before that. And at times I thought it can’t be true. Then I thought—listen. I don’t know how to phrase this.”

Sherlock removes the object slide from his microscope, turns it off, folds his hands in his lap and looks right at John, his expression entirely unreadable.

"You're my best friend."

"Yes." 

John swallows. “I was wondering if there’s anything, anything else you might—want from me. Apart from what we are. Whatever it is we are. Because God knows, I’m ready to give you everything I have, Sherlock. Anything. Because you are a good man, and I don't care if you believe it, you're the best man I know. And you deserve every bit of happiness you might want. Everything you could possibly dream of and—I know this is selfish but, a part of me is hoping that I might actually have the privilege of being involved in all this.“

“John,” Sherlock says, his voice barely above a whisper, “John, I’m not sure I understand what you’re trying to say.”

“What I’m trying to say is,” John begins, clears his throat, swallows, closes his eyes, “I—I was wondering if you would like to kiss me.”

A shiver goes through Sherlock’s entire body. He swallows, blinks once, twice, then breaks eye contact and stares down at the floor.

This is wrong. John has got it all wrong.

“Are you mocking me?” Sherlock whispers. He looks up, and John never wants to see him like this again, pale, his bottom lip trembling and his eyes wide and fearful. He’s breaking with vulnerability. "John, I--" Sherlock breathes, and shivers once more, and he's never been more pale, not even when he overdosed and nearly killed himself and, god, what has John done to him _now_? "I never took you for cruel," Sherlock whispers, "so I'm going to assume you're serious."

“I’m sorry," John says quickly, "I'm so sorry if that’s not what you want. We can ignore it, we can--“

“John," Sherlock bites out, and he looks like he really is struggling for words, "please don’t. Don’t. Just, tell me what you think it is. The things I want.”

John is blushing and his hands are trembling and this is terrifying, utterly terrifying. “I can only tell you what _I_ want, Sherlock, and tell you that I hope it's what you want as well.”

“Go on." Sherlock's voice is barely above a whisper, still, and he's swaying on his chair as if he's having trouble keeping himself upright.

“I want a life with you. You and Rosie. I want to stay here in 221B and spend the rest of my life with you and—and I want you to be a fixed point in Rosie’s life, and I want to be to you whatever you’ll allow me to be. Your best friend, your doctor, your blogger, your—your partner in whatever way you want me.“

There's a pause.

“You’re not gay,” Sherlock says, sounding a lot more composed all of a sudden.

“Well,” John says, the hateful irrational shame his father successfully beat into him flaring up for a second. He swallows it down. He can do this. “Turns out bisexuality is a real thing.”

“It is.” Sherlock blinks precisely three times. He looks so lost, so painfully confused, and John wants to make it all better. In whatever way he can.

 

 

Sherlock runs a hand through his hair and clears his throat, struggles for words. “John, I really want you to kiss me,” he says then, and looks at him, and he looks open and vulnerable and a tiny bit expectant and so stupidly, painfully beautiful.

 

So John gets up, pushes the chair between them out of the way, bends down and kisses Sherlock.

It takes Sherlock two seconds to kiss back and around twenty more seconds to remember that he cannot keep doing this without breathing through his nose; and John’s right elbow bumps against the microscope and his back is beginning to hurt and it’s ridiculous, and real, and perfect, and Sherlock’s lips are soft, warm, pliant, and this is really happening.

 

John Watson has never been more in love. God knows, John is not the man he wants to be, never has been, still isn't. And he's broken and flawed and he has made mistakes and he keeps making them; but right now he is in love, he has been for years, and now he has a chance, and he's going to give the man in his arms everything he's capable of giving.

 

And when they break apart, John keeps his hand where it was, cupping Sherlock’s cheek, and he reaches out with his free hand to brush a stray curl away from Sherlock’s forehead and tucks it neatly behind his ear.

“God,” he whispers, “you’re beautiful,” and he kisses Sherlock again.

 

They move to the couch after a while, because you can’t lie on top of each other in the kitchen, and lying on top of each other while kissing proves to be excellent.

Sherlock’s hand is under John’s shirt and he’s touching him gently, carefully, full of wonder, as if John is fragile and needs to be handled with care.

Their kisses deepen, and a flush spreads over Sherlock’s cheeks and neck as John trails kisses down his throat before he finds his mouth again, lets his tongue slip in. Sherlock tastes like sweet tea and it’s lovely. Ridiculously so. John won't even begin to try and process any of this, because it's just -- too good. Too much. 

“John,” Sherlock says during a kiss-pause, because it's just impossible for two people to keep their mouths on each other for an hour straight (regrettably), “John, can we keep doing this?”

“I was planning to,” John whispers into the little patch of skin right behind Sherlock’s left ear, then kisses it, “well, we’ll get tired eventually.“

“No,” Sherlock says and pulls away a bit, “not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” John looks down at Sherlock’s kiss swollen lips, his rosy cheeks, the crinkle between his eyebrows and feels like he could burst with love.

“I meant, can we keep doing this until we die?”

John breaks into a fit of giggles, rubs his eyes, giggles some more. “Yes, that too. But before we die, I’d really like to take you to bed. And tell you how much I – I love you. And show you.”

Sherlock swallows. “Yes,” he says then, breathlessly, and pulls John down for another kiss, “all of this. Preferably now.”

“Yes,” John murmurs against Sherlock’s lips, “yes, alright. Right now.”

 

 

For once, there are no words at 4 am.

 

The world is more awake than usual, however. Outside.

A group of people on their way home walk past 221 Baker Street, chatting, laughing, heels clattering on the pavement. A cab drives past, then another. A dog barks in the distance and the wind shakes the chestnut tree around the corner and, too far away, Big Ben strikes four once more.

Tonight, John and Sherlock don’t hear any of this. It’s 4am and everyone in 221 Baker Street is sound asleep.

Mrs Hudson downstairs and Rosie upstairs, and the detective and his blogger in between, wrapped tight around one another in their bed, after more whispered confessions and sighs and kisses and orgasms and even a few tears in the darkness.

For once, it’s quiet in the dusty little flat.

 

And tomorrow morning, for the first time in months, the daylight won’t be cruel to them.

Tomorrow morning, something new will begin.

 

 

 


End file.
